Rapunzel
by tir-synni
Summary: The house elf would come, always after, never before, before when his stomach gnawed and his heart pounded and he just walked ever-so-silently around the perimeter of the room, ears listening nervously just in case once, just once, the pattern broke.


Title: Waiting  
Author: tir-synni  
Disclaimer: JK Rowling is now on the billionaires' list. I'm scraping to have a candy bar to go with my lunch. Clear?  
Author Notes: Wow. My beta didn't seem particularly happy with the non-fluffiness of this fic. :D Actually inspired when I thought of one fic, then realized it wouldn't work unless it had something to go before it.  
Warning: implied non-con, darkfic, slash, blood, etc.  
Rating: R  
Beta: (blows kisses) Thank you, malfoy-hima! As always!

One step, two step, another step down. . . .

Small, bare feet tread lightly over soft carpet. Every several meters, the tiny feet would pause, and big, bright eyes would dart around nervously. No answer, no answer at all, and the tiny feet would continue their path on the soft carpet, the carpet's color as rich as yesterday and the day before despite the constant wear.

Four step, five step, six step, never closer and never farther to the end than he was to the beginning.

Just like yesterday, silence seeped into flesh and bone. The walls absorbed the sound of his breathing like the way the carpet quieted his steady steps. So quiet, so quiet, he kept raising his pale hands to his cherry mouth to check for his breathing, to check to make sure he had breath to breathe.

Seven step, eight step, nine step, eleven more to go. . . .

His long hair tickled his bare back, and he shivered in the perfect, oh-so-perfect temperature of the room. His short hair so long now, long and wavy, raven curls cascading to the small of his back. Always clean, always shiny, always always always despite how he regularly tore at it and ripped at it and howled at it as it grew and shimmered and tickled his back.

Touching the wall, fingers on the wall, time to turn, twenty steps to the next wall, twenty to the next, only five steps after that to go. . . .

Blood should stain the walls. Blood already dripping, red fingerprints embedded where he touched. But never, never, walls always smooth and pale with hungry carnelians never touching the shimmering peaches. Peaches and cream, He insisted on peaches and cream, touching the walls and touching his skin and declaring peaches and cream, peaches and cream.

One step, two step, another step down. . . .

Blood should stain the sheets, bloody sheets stained with sin and pain and carnal lust but always lost in the inky silk, countless moments of misery forgotten in the careless tousle of black sheets, soft and inviting and mocking in the gentle light of the room. Elegantly, beautifully, artfully disheveled black sheets on the king-sized bed. Looking at it, avoiding it, he could barely recall his screams.

Four step, five step, six step, never closer and never farther to the end than he was to the beginning.

Always on time, always after the final step, He would come, tantalizing smile on thin lips. Cherry lips, He always claimed, coming forward, two steps, always two steps before the swoop. Cherry lips He claimed to adore, but no pale red adorned the room, no red at all within the small room. Perhaps in honor of his white white skin He loved to bite and suck, but no, no because He like to bite until the crimson blood arose, never staining black sheets or peach and cream walls.

Seven step, eight step, nine step, eleven more to go. . . .

The house elf would come, always after, never before, before when his stomach gnawed and his heart pounded and he just walked ever-so-silently around the perimeter of the room, ears listening nervously just in case once, just once, the pattern broke. Afterwards, when he could barely breathe, nonetheless eat, and he choked on his own sobs and blood.

Touching the wall, fingers on the wall, time to turn, twenty steps to the next wall, only five after that to go. . . .

Once upon a time, far too long ago, he used to keep the time, back when he used to believe that the time would end, that time itself would end, before the steps began. But each time his marks would be cleansed like his blood was cleansed from the walls and sheets, a dirty little secret, his dirty little secret and His dirty little secret so he only knew a long time had passed when his hair reached his shoulders and then his back and soon his ass, tickling that like it tickled his spine.

So many steps, so many steps, and he counted them diligently, counted them like he couldn't count the hours or the days. He knew how many steps until He arrived, until the house elf arrived, until exhaustion overwhelmed him and he could not walk anymore. He knew, he knew when he did not know if it was night or day. Did He prefer to visit him at night, see his dirty little secret at night, when all else was abed so He could play with his long hair and bite his pale skin with no distractions from the Outside? Or perhaps during the day, taunting him with the knowledge of forbidden sunshine on His smooth skin, playing with His dirty little secret before going back to the Outside, smiling and playing nice and ignoring the blood drying beneath his manicured nails.

One step, two step, three step away from the final wall. He was coming, he knew, His footsteps outside the door as rhythmic as the pounding of his heart. He couldn't hear them, but he knew He was out there, always there on the final stretch towards the king-sized, silken, jet bed. Four step, five step, collapsing against the mattress and glaring at the door.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No breath escaped his choked throat, the blood pounding in his throbbing head successfully drowning out any possible sound. Yet . . . there was no sound to hear. No dramatic swish of the door, no mocking voice, no fingers sliding against a slick cane.

Nothing nothing nothing.

Third round of pacing, so many steps on soft carpet, and He had not arrived.

No darkening eyes, no parting thin lips, no long hair tossed elegantly over one royal shoulder. No blood, no pain, no desire.

Nothing.

Silence drummed against his skin, and he closed his eyes tightly. Never before had He been late when he began pacing. He knew his steps, he knew His timing. He would come, break the dreaded silence with His dreaded presence, and He would leave, and the house elf would come, and he would rest, and the pacing would begin again.

"Lucius?" Harry Potter croaked. Tentatively, he raised one hand, the charmed bracelet on his wrist shivering. So long ago, when He had swept him from a bloodied battlefield after he had killed His master, away from his desperate, confused friends and colleagues, carrying his exhausted form away from what should have been his victory, his finest moment, He had placed that bracelet on his wrist and claimed him as His. A lifetime ago, He had trapped him within his black and peaches and cream cage and called him His.

A lifetime ago, and He had never been late.

"Lucius?" Harry repeated.

Nothing.

Sighing wearily, he arose and began his round. Because he knew He would come. He always did.


End file.
